


Deadbolt

by theleaveswant



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Break Up, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Obsession, One of My Favorites, Post-Movie(s), Self-Destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/pseuds/theleaveswant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Here's that microfilm you asked us to steal," he says, putting the paper bag down on the gritty counter of the kitchenette, "and some fresh IDs in case you ever plan to leave the house again."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deadbolt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zillah975](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zillah975/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Закрытая дверь](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3591522) by [Heidel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heidel/pseuds/Heidel)



> Because it's kinda really not cool, given their respective behaviour, that Clay gets to be lauded as a hero while Roque is branded traitor and punished "accordingly" (I hope this still works for you on some level, zillah975; it's Roque alive and sympathetic and in my heart it's a fix-it fic, but it's really not a happy ending).

Roque hovers in the hallway outside Clay's door for five minutes before knocking, taking deep, calming breaths. He finally does raise his fist to rap and Clay's shadow leaps to block the peephole almost sooner than his knuckles connect. Roque exhales slowly, listening to the scratch and clatter as Clay unlocks the door and releases the deadbolt.

“Come on in,” Clay rasps, and shuts the door behind him. 

Roque looks over his shoulder to check him out: rumpled clothes, beard going feral, and his eyes bright and bloodshot in a way Roque's not certain whether to chalk up to drugs or plain old sleep dep. “Here's that microfilm you asked us to steal,” he says, putting the paper bag down on the gritty counter of the kitchenette, “and some fresh IDs in case you ever plan to leave the house again. Seriously, bro, how long's it been since you had a fucking shower?”

“Yesterday sometime.” Clay waves a hand dismissively and grabs for the bag.

“Are you sure about that? Because that smell—” Roque rubs at his nose and glances around the clutter of the apartment.

“What day's today?” Clay asks.

“Wednesday.”

“Could've been the day before.”

“Right,” Roque mutters. He crosses the living room to the window, stepping over drifts of paper, print-outs and 8x10s and sheets of hand-scribbled notes. Dust falls from the rod when he yanks the curtain back, and he hears Clay trip over something behind him when the sudden brightness catches him by surprise. “You know I had coffee with Jensen when I went to pick that shit up.”

“Oh yeah?” Clay does a poor job of pretending to listen while he roots around for something on an overflowing work-table. 

“He asked me why you weren't there to collect the microfilm yourself.” Clay grunts. “He's worried about you, Clay. They all are.”

That pricks his interest, at least, though it garners a bitter grimace. “Is Aisha still up there with them?”

“Oh yeah. The five of them are all very happy, having weird marathon athletic sex.”

Clay barks a laugh. “Jensen told you that?”

“I read between the lines.” Roque returns to the kitchen, relieved and a little surprised to see no obvious signs of infestation, although that could just be because what Clay's living on barely deserves the moniker of 'food'. “Let me take you out for lunch. We'll get some fresh air, you can eat something green—something that's _supposed_ to be green,” he amends with a scowl when he opens up the door of the refrigerator. “Come on, man. You go get cleaned up and I'll wait for you outside.”

“Can't. Working.”

“Bullshit,” Roque says, crossing his arms in the middle of the clearest and therefore presumably most high-traffic patch of floor. “Max isn't going to get any further away from us if you put on some clean pants and go outside for an hour or two, that is assuming that you have any clean pants.”

“I don't want to go outside, Roque,” Clay says, slowing his walk as he approaches Roque until he's practically oozing towards him, pouring slow like cold molasses. “Can't we order in?”

He stops in front of Roque, close enough that a simultaneous inhalation would push their bodies together, and smiles, slow and predatory. Roque shuts his eyes and sighs. “I thought we agreed we weren't going to do this anymore.”

“ _You_ agreed,” Clay says, leaning in to nuzzle against his neck, breath hot and lips barely grazing his skin, surrounded by unkempt beard. 

“Because I'm not your fucking keeper, Clay. I don't want to be your lover if that means being your goddamn care-worker.” 

“You're hard,” Clay observes, palming Roque's cock through his jeans, and Roque's hand flies to latch around Clay's wrist.

“That doesn't make it alright.”

Clay hums and squeezes, and Roque twists his arm around to smack Clay's palm into his own chest and hold it there.

“No, okay? No. I agreed to help you nail Max and clear our names, and I'll do that, I'll do whatever it takes to make that happen because that's the mission and I owe you that much. But I will not play any more of these twisted little mindgames with you.”

“What mindgames?” Clay asks, his eyes wide with innocent confusion, and Roque wants so much just to kiss him and apologize until his stomach flips as a sick, impossible thought strikes him. “I thought you wanted to take me to lunch.”

“You're not—” he says, and it comes out a whisper. He tries again, forcing the words out although they burn in his throat. “You're not dragging this out on purpose, are you? Letting Max slip away just to keep me from leaving for a little while longer?”

“What?” Clay takes a step back, his face twisted with disgust—and an edge of fear?

“Clay—” Roque says, clenched fists digging fingernails into his palms, kicking himself for his stupidity. “I'm sorry. That was out of line.”

“Get the fuck out.”

Roque puts his hands on Clay's arms. “I said I'm sorry.”

“And I said get out, _Captain_.” Clay shoves him, hard, then lunges for the door and scrabbles at the locks.

Roque allows Clay to grab his shirt and throw him out into the hallway, shaken by the massive scale of his own fuck-up, and turns back to face the door at the same moment that the deadbolt slams home.


End file.
